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If you’re capable of tweeting three times about how much you like toast, you’ve got to be a pretty open person, right? Despite sharing the minutiae of life on a near daily basis, I’m careful about what I do share. Facebook status? Haven’t had one for years. The last proper selfie I posted on Instagram? Twenty-seven weeks ago. If you consider that a blog is an online diary of sorts, this could start to become a problem. I absolutely love reading how others tackle major life issues, successes and failures in the open, cheering them on with a tweet, so why am I so reluctant to write a few words of my own, let alone click publish? So here's a post that's been in my drafts for a good eight weeks...

I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve, both in real life and online. It’s a bit like that lacy and incredibly uncomfortable bra you adore but will only ever come out on special (and probably slutty, we’ve all been there) occasions. You’re vaguely aware of where it is, but it’s an effort getting to and you're convinced it won’t be worth it - best it just stays put. I’ve been told time and time again that I can be pretty frustrating to talk to; I’m not forthcoming with personal information and work on a strictly need to know basis. Inability to leave my room for weeks on end other than to attend lectures (just)? Nah, just not been out much. Recurring medical problem? Left it over two years before seeing a doctor. That tooth I broke in November? I still need to make that dentist appointment… Yet I’m probably one of the easiest people to talk to you’ll ever meet (not to blow my own trumpet or anything, I’m just pretty chatty). Get me in a good mood, and I can talk like we’ve been BFFs for years, but it's doubtful you'll learn anything about me other than what I got up to at the weekend. This kind of thing just doesn’t come naturally to me, and, although I bottle things up with the inevitable outpouring of tears in the work toilets, I’ve made it to 23 without a criminal record so I can’t be doing too badly.

In fact, I post so infrequently about the feels that I can pinpoint my few moments of emotional openness on the internet very easily – namely because I’ve had to suffer the consequences of it. The first very open chat I had on my blog was about my time at university, and how I hadn’t enjoyed every second of it. I’d massively toned down the extent of how much the loneliness had affected me (I’m still not comfortable going into the details of that to this day), regardless I got three people to check it wasn't "too much" before deciding to go with it. So I clicked publish. I got people messaging me saying how they were upset by the post (wait, you know I blog?), saying how I should’ve opened up to them at the time, how I should’ve mentioned them by name in the post, saying how I should’ve consulted them before publishing it, etc. When my next big life moment happened, I didn’t bother saying much. I announced I was moving to Munich by sticking to facts. I fannied around with what I’d been up to (FYI, it was spent going out out at least twice a week and ebaying everything I owned), but there was literally zero depth, as planned.

This post may have a pretty self-derogatory tone, but there is the question of whether this is actually a big problem. Blog isn’t short for “web log” any more – it’s a word in its own right, and we’ve moved on a long way since Live Journal. I frankly can’t be bothered to dissect the true meaning of the word in 2015 as it’s something to be done over a bottle of wine, but, as a lot of bloggers have mentioned, blogs are now becoming your A+ version, leaving those Cs and Ds as drafts and Snapchats – there’s no room for the imperfect, and I’ll be the first to tell you I’m as far from that pinnacle as can be. My blog isn’t special; my only niche is myself (and, perhaps, my rather excellent puns). Seeing as I’m not putting the former into my blog, it’s slowly making me wonder whether there’s any point in putting in hours of dedication to one post, because... who cares? It’s one-dimensional, and I’m amazed on a daily basis that I have any regular readers (you guys are well alright).

I’m clearly not going to promise to write more open posts in the near future, as it’s simply impossible to change my mindset on a whim, or even a published (!!!) blog post. Yet I still do love reading about the blogger behind the Instagram filters, and with the added bonus of conversation – hello, Twitter! – even I can open up a teeny tiny bit. Maybe.

I may not be Megs with her incredibly frank and amazing video explaining her smear test and treatment, Katy who you just want to cuddle (as much as Runkle) and drink milky tea with to remind yourself it’s OK to not be OK, or even the wonderful Soph who goes on in the best possible way about one little thing, but that’s OK because they are so much better at it than I am. But when you do get a little snippet of what’s going on inside my head it’s probably going to be muddled and come at you like a bloody hurricane (because I’m hurt and shouting it at you), but it will be from the heart. So even if I’m not letting on I cried a tiny little tear at a Hannah Maggs vlog that one time, I hope you guys are happy with what I do share, and if you ever have any questions feel free to send me an email and I will reply with an honest to blog answer. Promise.

Looking for a lovely, relaxing weekend full of chilled café stops and calm walks along the river? I wouldn't rate Cambridge all that highly (come on tourists, do you need to be in packs of fifty???). In naïve fashion, I'd nagged my mum to go there for about six months as I hadn't been since January 2012 (second photo) thinking it'd be, in the words of that Cards Against Humanity card I couldn't get rid of yesterday, 'sunshine and rainbows'. Don't get me wrong, Cambridge is a beautiful city and I always love visiting, but a sunny Saturday in August is prime slow-walker time and tested my patience more than you'd believe. Unless, of course, you've seen me stuck behind someone who can't use a self-serve till at the supermarket... #21stcenturyrage

As you'd expect from watching all eight Harry Potter films, Cambridge is filled to the brim with beautiful architecture, independent shops (tell me more about this fudge kitchen's free samples) and a load of punts. As far as recommendations go, the shops on Rose Cres are the nicest and the everyman cinema is worth visiting, but on this trip we mainly just wandered around keeping my Moves app happy, rather than spending all the money in Jo Malone/antique book shops. Because seriously, if the above bookshop had been open, I would have spent some serious money on the first edition of Wilde's Earnest. If you know someone who's studying there and are a student too, then I'd definitely recommend staying with them as you get into the colleges free/discounted/pretend to be studying there too more convincingly, as some of the colleges are upwards of £10 to enter at the usual rate, and I'd rather spend a tenner on postcards at the Fitzwilliam Museum. If there weren't quite so many people around it'd be a much nicer place to visit, but, crowds aside, there's no better place to feel smug that you can pronounce the name 'Gonville and Caius' correctly.

Back to Essex, and I'm going to spend today indoors, sparing a thought for the poor souls at V festival in the rain down the road (haha, jk, suckers).

The Seventies called, it wants its wardrobe back. As someone who's unfortunately gifted in the brassière department (trust me, it's not as fun as TOWIE would lead you to believe), there are loads of styles which I thought were firmly 100% out of the books for me, pussybow blouses being one of them. Frills on top of all that? I don't want to look like a back to front stegosaurus. All hope was not lost, however, when I spied this lil number in Monsoon whilst my friend was present-shopping on Oxford Street - its silky shape, paisley fabric and subtle tie-neck make for some throwback style I can totally get on board with. Teamed with one of my best charity shop finds (suck on that price tag, AC for AG), this might just sway me from sixties-dressing. Just the once...

PS, love Hadleigh's weird (and unexplainable) obsession with sheep. Those books are classics in the making.